


reflections of you

by willoftitanium



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Fluff, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Magnus Archives Season 1, The Magnus Archives Season 2, The Magnus Archives Season 4, Tim is here too but only briefly, just some happy snippets!, loosely related, you can tell I skipped over the stuff I don't remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willoftitanium/pseuds/willoftitanium
Summary: Jon learning mundane things about Martin, and Martin learning mundane things about Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 19
Kudos: 134





	reflections of you

**Author's Note:**

> I use fluff to cope and that's that on that!  
> each bit is set in a different part of the series, ending with the safehouse because the apocalypse never happened and Jon and Martin will live long and fulfilling lives with each other :)))

It's just Martin in the Assistant's room. Sasha’s in the library on a case follow-up, and Tim is...well, Jon doesn't know where Tim is. Doing work, hopefully. Jon's too tired to fight back the scowl.

"Martin," he says, as way of announcement. Martin snaps his head up from his computer.

"I just finished your report on the McGuffin case. I've marked some corrections for you to make." Jon makes his way to Martin's desk. He pauses for a moment, considering his words. "It's still subpar, but an improvement over the last one."

Martin blinks. "Oh, uh, thanks? I think? I'll look it over." Martin takes the folder and sets it next to-

Martin looks at him, back at his desk, back again. "Is...is something wrong, Jon?"

"What are those?"

"Oh, these?" Martin picks up a small handful of little white flowers. Some still have the roots attached, pulled directly from the earth. "They're, uh, daisies. They start to bloom around this time of year, and...I've always thought they looked nice. There's a little spot next to my apartment where a bunch of them grow, and I picked a few just to, y'know, lighten up the place? I know they won't last more than a day, there aren't exactly windows in here, and-" 

He slows, takes a breath. "-well, I know it probably isn't "professional" to have them sitting on my desk. I'll take care of them-" 

He moves to stand, and with a jolt of anxiety Jon realizes how much he does  _ not  _ want Martin to do that.

"No! No, it's...it's fine." It's louder than he meant it to be and Martin stops, looking at him. Jon clears his throat in the sudden silence. "They're...nice. Keep them."

"Really?" Martin asks. He smiles. What, did he think Jon would make him throw them out?

Jon realizes that's probably exactly what he thought. He also realizes he's been standing and staring for too long, at the flowers and Martin's face. Jon gives him a curt nod and turns to leave. He's wasted enough time as it is. He stops just before reaching the door, and turns back.

"There are some extra cups in the break room. If you keep them in water they might last a little longer." Jon says. He doesn't wait for Martin's reply before stepping into the hall.

Where he almost runs into Tim.

"Well, well." Tim's leaning against the wall, bomber jacket thrown over his shoulder. When had he left the building? "Going soft, are we, Boss?"

Jon scowls, and  _ god _ why is his face so warm? "Get back to work, Tim."

Tim laughs, gives him a small salute as Jon stalks back to his office. Jon can't help but think it's a wonder anything ever gets done around here.

The next day, he notices a patch of daisies outside the tube station. It’s early, and the white petals glisten with morning dew. They look healthier than Jon would expect from urban wild flowers. A single patch of life in stark contrast to the asphalt and concrete. They remind him of Martin. He doesn't know what to do with that. 

He leaves them be.

* * *

Martin finds out the hard way that the end of the work day is less of a relief when you’re living  _ at _ work. Even without plans, the palpable comfort he got from stepping into his flat after a long day, putting on comfortable pajamas, making tea in his favorite mug - it was  _ nice _ . Even if it was boring. And predictable. He misses predictable.

After waving Tim and Sasha off for the day he'd gone back to his desk. He had some emails to finish sending, and might as well get them done while he was thinking about it, right? At least something so mundane could distract him from, well,  _ everything _ else. It feels better to worry about how many exclamation points to include in his reply rather than the next time he'll see Prentiss again. 

He blinks and suddenly it's almost seven, and he hasn't eaten since lunch. He stretches, neck popping probably more than a healthy amount, and makes his way to the break room. The chill of the hallway hits him, and he wishes he had one of his oversized jumpers. But it's at home with the rest of his clothes. Naturally.

Cooking options were limited in the archives, which was fine. Martin was no chef, but he knew his way around easy meals. Things you could make with tap water and a microwave. It wasn't glamorous, but it got the job done.

He's almost at the end of the hall when he realizes the light in the break room is still on. Which is weird, because he could have sworn he'd switched it off after-  _ oh. _

The light is on because Jon is here. At the table. Eating. It's enough to stop Martin in the doorway, if only for a moment.

Jon’s  _ never _ in the break room. Not really. Martin’s seen him in passing once or twice bringing mugs of half-drunk tea to rinse. But using it for it's true purpose of a  _ break _ ? Unheard of.

Jon gives him a nod, legs crossed under the table and a tupperware container of...something in front of him. Stew, maybe? Curry? On a bed of rice. Martin pulls himself out of his surprise long enough to get a "hello" out as he makes his way to the cupboards.

The warm aroma hits him the closer he gets to the table.

Martin breaks the silence. “Wow, that smells great.”

“Oh, this?” Jon gestures to the container in front of him and Martin wants to laugh, because what else could he possibly be referring to? “It’s not much, really. Just something I threw together at home.”

_ Threw together? _ “Oh, do you cook?”

“Yes, I suppose? I uh, don’t have much time for it these days, but sometimes it’s easier to make a big pot of something and just, eat it for a week.” Jon makes a looping gesture with his fork and of course Martin has to think that’s cute. Damn him. “You know, less decisions to make.”

Martin opens one of the cabinets above the sink, humming in agreement because he  _ does _ know. The minute rice he’d had planned seems much less appealing with a home-cooked meal less than a meter away. Which is ok, it’s not like-

“Do you want some?”

Martin stops, turns back to Jon. “S-sorry?”

“I said, do you want some? I just brought all that was left and it’s a few more servings than I thought it would be.”

Martin’s brain might as well have turned to mush, for what good it's doing for him. Sharing a meal across from Jon. That Jon cooked. That Jon is  _ offering _ to share with him. Jon with his slicked-back hair and button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up  _ does he always do that when he’s working late? _

“-don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to-”

Oh,  _ hell _ . “No, no! I mean, yes, no-” Martin cuts his panic with a laugh, mostly at himself. Jon eyes him suspiciously over the rim of his glasses. “I mean, I’d love to have some. If-if you have enough to spare.”

“I already said I did, didn’t I?” Martin knows there would have been more bite behind that if Jon really wanted there to be. He takes that as a success. Jon makes a gesture for a spare bowl from the cupboard, and Martin passes it over with only a hint of a fumble.

It tastes as great as it smells. They eat in a silence that isn't uncomfortable, and it's nice.

* * *

When Martin invites him to lunch, Jon doesn’t have a reason to say no. So he agrees.

It’s not an entirely unpleasant meal, but Jon knows how low that standard is for himself. Martin seems determined to keep the small talk going, and Jon isn’t  _ really _ trying to be difficult. But it’s hard to make room for it, next to the pain from Michael’s parting gift, and the feeling like he has to look over his shoulder every five seconds and  _ god they should have gotten a booth. _

Jon comes back to himself to realize he’s been quiet for too long. Martin’s quiet, too, seemingly focused on the turkey sandwich he’s holding. Whether he's just taking a moment to eat or given up on the conversation entirely, Jon can't be sure.

Martin's wearing a jean jacket over his work shirt, and Jon's eye catches the shock of color on the sleeve. It's a collection of small star patches, all different sizes and colors. They run along the length of the arm, and Jon is surprised he hadn't noticed them before.

“I like your, uh-" Jon gestures vaguely to Martin's arm "your, patches?”

Martin looks down as his sleeve. “Oh! Th-thank you. They, uh, aren't patches, actually.” He shrugs. “I embroidered them myself."

“Really?”

“What, is that so surprising?” Martin asks, with a bit of offence. “I do it quite a bit. I guess a lot of people associate it with like, old ladies? Or grandmothers? Not that that should be a bad thing, really, but- yeah. It’s fun.”

Jon doesn’t point out the fact that embroidery makes him think of his own grandmother. She tried to teach him once, something to keep him still and out of trouble for longer than a few minutes. She showed him how to separate the threads and thread the needles and different kinds of stitches. It was actually the more pleasant of childhood memories - sitting in silence with his grandmother while they pulled their needles in and out of fabric. It wasn’t fool-proof - Jon could rarely keep up the same meticulous movements long enough to finish what he started, and ended up with a collection of half-finished designs. But it was nice while it lasted.

It feels wrong to say all of that out loud, so he doesn’t. Instead- “Well, they do look nice. You’re clearly good at it.”

Martin stares for a moment before he smiles. He talks about the next designs he has in mind and the colors he thinks go well together, and Jon finds it a bit easier to pay attention.

* * *

There's a soft touch, just above his elbow. "Would you like anything?"

Jon's soft voice cuts through the crowd the noise the  _ everything _ , grounding him like an anchor in sand. Martin's eyes focus on him, then the hand still touching him, then the small cafe just to their right.

Does he want something? When was the last time he  _ wanted _ ? When was the last time he could  _ have  _ something he wanted?

There's a small menu in the window. The letters blend together into a mess of color and he doesn't know-

"Sorry, sorry- I'll get something for you. Something warm." The hand squeezes faintly tighter before it releases. "Don't worry."

Martin is grateful, but he doesn't trust his voice to speak it. He thinks Jon understands anyway. He waits by the corner for him to order, trying to focus on something, anything. He knows they have to get  _ away _ and he knows they’re getting on a train and he knows the train isn’t here yet so they have to wait. He knows they’re going to Scotland. He knows Jon pulled him out of the Lonely and Martin would be lying if he said he didn’t want to disappear right now. But-

Jon is next to him again, and presses a warm travel cup into his hand. He says something about tea and how Martin takes it, and steps away to get sugar packets. He didn't know Jon knew how he took his tea. He's back in a moment, and Martin robotically takes a sip-

-to be met with the sweetest what-he-assumes-is-a-latte in the world. The shock of it quiets everything else for a moment, and he can't hide the disgust on his face.

"J-Jon, what is this?"

"Oh! Sorry, sorry, I gave you mine to hold while I fixed yours- uh, here-" He swaps the cup of pure distilled sugar for another that looks exactly the same. But this one is definitely tea, based on the smell alone.

The grimace pulls at his face, like the muscles there forgot how to move with that much expression. It feels strange, but good, like stretching after a long day. "What's in that, anyway?"

Jon laughs, like, a proper laugh, and it loosens something in his chest that he didn't know was tightened. "It's a, uh, caramel latte with...two extra flavor shots."

"Je _ sus _ -"

"Oh, it's not that bad. It's quite tasty, I think." He takes a sip to accent the point. Bastard.

"I didn't even know you drank coffee."

Jon brushes a lock of hair back absent-mindedly. "I don't, not really. I used to, uh, drink it a lot back in uni, but I cut myself off for a few years. I always liked getting the really sweet ones, though." He takes another sip, cradling the cup to his chest with both hands. Then, almost shyly- "Caramel is my favorite."

Something about this revelation, his voice, his face, hits Martin with a wave of affection so strong it almost sends him to tears on the spot. Instead, he laughs. The rest of the station falls away, and it's just Jon and his cup of "coffee" and Martin's love for him.

A moment of shock crosses Jon's face before he laughs himself. "What, is that funny?"

"No- not really." He pauses. "Well, a little, yeah. It's mostly surprising. In a good way, though."

"A good way?"

Martin takes a sip of his own drink. It's not perfect - a bit too much sugar - but it's close, and he has to give Jon credit for that. "Yeah, a good way."

* * *

"Jon, have you seen my-  _ ah _ ."

Jon gives a little “hm?” in response. Martin joins him on the couch.

“Oh, nothing. You answered my question for me.”

Martin only brought two jumpers with him on their...trip? Is that what this was? Running for their lives by hiding in the Scottish Highlands? He’d tried to avoid taking more than necessary, but the northern weather isn’t exactly tropical, and the house’s central heating is, well - practically nonexistent. Two would  _ maybe _ be enough if Jon wasn’t throwing one on every chance he got. 

He’s wearing the yellow one, now. He’s practically swimming in it - the sleeves bunch up around his wrists, and the hem goes well past his waist. Not that Martin was complaining. He looked  _ adorable _ .

“Sorry,” Jon smiles, looking down at the stolen garment “It’s just so  _ warm _ . And yellow is my favorite.”

“Really? Huh.”

Jon turns to him. “What?”

“I always thought green was your favorite color. Since you used to wear it all the time.”

Jon breathes between a hum and a huff, like he’s offended. “I suppose that’s fair. I like how green looks, aesthetically, on clothes and things. But I think yellow’s always been my favorite.” He brings his arms in, like he’s trying to hug the jumper as close to himself as possible. He holds the rolled up cuffs in clenched fingers. “It’s just...it’s a nice color. It’s warm.” It doesn’t feel like the end of his thought. Martin waits, which is coincidentally something he’s good at.

A pause, a breath. “It makes me think of you.”

Something wonderful squeezes in Martin's chest, and-

“Can I hug you, Jon?” He asks, because they always ask.

“Of course.”

They stay like that for a while. If Martin can't wear his sweater the next best thing is hugging  _ Jon _ wearing his sweater. The latter might be preferable, if Martin is being honest with himself. But still-

Martin moves his head so he can talk around Jon’s hair. “Can you try stealing the other one every once in a while? Yellow is  _ my _ favorite, too.”

"Oh, really?" Jon laughs against his chest. "Martin, I'm sorry, I think that just makes me want to steal it  _ more _ ."

"Oh, you  _ bastard _ -"

Jon wraps his arms around himself in a petulant effort to keep Martin from pulling it over his head. Which doesn't stop Martin from trying. It's more of an encouragement, really.

After ten minutes, Jon’s still wearing it. Martin doesn’t mind.


End file.
